Summer is over. I swear they don't even look like this anymore.
His first set of school shirts are hanging up in his wardrobe already, white like first snow (for now at least). He has grown this summer, a seedling watered and fed under the sun for what feels like forever. Now he's all elbows and knees, buttons and collars, trousers and ties - and cheekbones too. It's bittersweet for all of us. An unknown, yet exciting; this is what I'm telling him while a part of me aches, wishes I was better at patience, wishes I could keep him with me for longer.
And so my days will be quieter, softer, sort of. Two of my three boys will be out after breakfast, one in school, one in Montessori, and they won't return until later in the afternoon and I know it won't be long until the sky will start to turn darker a little earlier with every day. I shan't be alone for I'll have Jude, but I'm hoping to relish the squishes and cuddles and save him from his tumbles and then, when he takes that nice long nap, I'll have the sort of alone time I've not had for years. Time to write, to read, to think, to plan, to action, to be.
He's nearly walking now, Jude. Holding onto my little finger, almost (not quite) ready to let go. Unsteady footsteps, faltering here and there like a fawn. When he stands strong, he looks at me with glee, his golden hair like fine spun sugar falling into his eyes and he laughs, his giggles scattering upwards like bubbles of pink lemonade, and that just fills up all the spaces everywhere and in between and underneath.